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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30113091">got no reason to smile</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lies_Unfurl/pseuds/Lies_Unfurl'>Lies_Unfurl</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Baking, Birthday, Bucky Barnes Feels, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Crack, Food, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Multiverse, POV Sam Wilson, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Pre-Relationship, Sam Wilson Feels</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 00:46:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,410</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30113091</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lies_Unfurl/pseuds/Lies_Unfurl</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam learns that Bucky hasn't celebrated his birthday in 80 years. </p><p>This fact bothers him way more than it (allegedly) bothers Bucky.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes &amp; Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>68</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>621</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>title shamelessly stolen from lesbian icon Lesley Gore's classic bop "It's My Party." comments always extremely appreciated.</p><p>also, as a heads up: this involves Endgame!Steve, and it is... a little bit critical of him.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Did you remember to wish Bucky a happy birthday?”</p><p>Sharon asks the question almost as an afterthought, right at the end of her check-in call. She’s been fading in and out throughout it, which is a natural consequence of being in a tiny town in Kentucky where the local motel doesn’t even have a fucking wifi password, let alone actual cell service (also, Sam is pretty sure Sharon is somewhere in Europe right now, although she hasn’t confirmed either way).</p><p>Those last words, though, are loud and clear.</p><p>Sam frowns. “What?”</p><p>Sharon starts to repeat the question—she’s had to repeat things numerous time during their conversation—but Sam cuts her off. “No, I mean, I heard you. It’s Bucky’s birthday?”</p><p>“It’s still March 10 over there, right?”</p><p>He glances up at the actual analog clock hanging against a background of peeling puke-green wallpaper. “For another two hours.”</p><p>“Do you not know when Bucky’s birthday is?”</p><p>“No,” Sam says honestly, and a little defensively. “He never mentioned it.”</p><p>His words are <i>mostly</i> true. He did have a vague idea that Bucky’s birthday was sometime in the late winter or early spring—Steve always got moody around then, and he talked more about the past, about skipping school to go to the seaside to watch the choppy gray waters, just the two of them. </p><p>But it hadn’t really been on his mind. He’d been more concerned with things like finding emotional stability in a post-Blip world, apartment-hunting in a real estate market that was chock-full of legal battles to reclaim property that had been abandoned five years before, and searching for intel in abandoned terrorist bases in the creepy part of Appalachia with Bucky, only to find absolutely nothing and have to drive all the way back to DC because Ross was too fucking cheap to pay for them to fly.</p><p>Sharon very charitably doesn’t point out that Sam could’ve just checked Wikipedia, if he’d ever bothered to contemplate things like Bucky having a birthday. “Tell him I said happy birthday,” she says instead. “I texted him, but I’m not sure if he got it.”</p><p>“Yeah, the reception here sucks ass. I’ll let him know.”</p><p>Sharon thanks him, and they chat a bit more before saying goodbye. And then Sam is alone in the shitty motel room, Bucky having offered to drive three towns over to get them McDonald’s.</p><p>Birthdays. Huh.</p><p>They’d celebrated Sam’s birthday a few weeks after coming back, when they were still reacclimating with Sam’s family. Bucky hadn’t had much time to prepare, or much money, since he was still in the process of recovering his various international bank accounts. But he’d gone out and bought (possibly stolen) Sam a couple of action novels that had come out in the past five years, and also a little keychain with the Captain America shield on it. It had been a nice gesture, especially considering they’d barely known each other at the time.</p><p>He still feels like he barely knows Bucky sometimes, even though they’ve spent vast amounts of time together during the past ten months. He knows how Bucky fights. He knows that Bucky is extremely unpicky about what radio station plays on their drives. He knows that Bucky flirts with everyone he meets, with himself being the only exception, for whatever reason. He knows that Bucky has nightmares but does so in total silence; the only time Sam ever sees him start suddenly awake is when Sam himself is either processing a bad dream or just outright unable to sleep. </p><p>He doesn’t know what Bucky does in his spare time when he’s not around Sam, if he’s got friends besides Sharon and Wanda and himself (assuming Bucky considers him a friend. Most days, Sam is willing to give Bucky that title, as long as he isn’t being more of an ass than usual). He very rarely knows what Bucky is feeling at any given moment. It’s nothing like with Steve; Steve, Sam could clock how he was doing from the moment they met.</p><p>And he apparently doesn’t know when Bucky’s birthday is. Maybe he really <i>isn’t</i> Bucky’s friend.</p><p>Sam is in the middle of contemplating if there’s anything he can do to brighten up the motel room for a birthday party—tear up some sheets for streamers, maybe?—when Bucky raps out their coded knock on the door, and then opens up. He’s clutching an almost comically large McDonald’s bag that’s spotted translucent in places from all the grease in one hand. In the other, he holds a tray with two Shamrock Shakes, which he’d said was a stupid fucking name but which Sam had said were a national institution and he had to try them if he didn’t want Sam telling their therapist that Bucky was acting un-American. </p><p>“Sharon says happy birthday,” Sam informs him.</p><p>Bucky looks at him for a second, then kicks the door shut behind him. “I know. Her text came through while I was driving there. Don’t know if my response sent, though.”</p><p>“Well, happy birthday from me, too.”</p><p>Bucky sets the bag and the shakes on their room’s rickety table. “Thanks.”</p><p>“You should’ve mentioned it. I would’ve pulled off the highway and found a bakery somewhere.”</p><p>“I don’t wanna stay here any longer than we have to.”</p><p>“Still.” Sam heads over to the table and sits down across from Bucky.  “Let’s do something when we’re back in the city. Get a cake, maybe some ice cream? We can wait for Sharon to come home too, or see if Wanda can come down, if you want.”</p><p> Bucky takes a long sip from his Shamrock Shake and wrinkles his nose. Once he’s swallowed, he pushes it towards Sam and shakes his head. “I don’t celebrate my birthday.”</p><p>“What? Why not?”</p><p>“I’m a Jehovah’s Witness.”</p><p>“Steve said he learned how to curse in Yiddish from your grandparents, and Wanda posted a picture on Insta of the two of you making latkes and lighting a menorah last year, so try again.”</p><p>“Maybe I’m both.” Bucky shoves a handful of fries in his mouth and chews obnoxiously loudly. “Maybe my religious upbringing was extremely complicated, you ever think of that?”</p><p>“You don’t even know what a Jehovah’s Witness <i>is</i>!”</p><p>“And you didn’t even know when my birthday was, so let’s call it even.”</p><p>Bucky doesn’t actually sound hurt, but Sam still feels kind of bad.</p><p>“I’m sorry. I should’ve. Let me make it out to you?”</p><p>“If I cared about you knowing when my birthday was, I would’ve been dropping hints for the past month or so. Really obvious ones. Even you would’ve picked up on them.”</p><p>Sam considers throwing a fry at him, but decides against it; he’s pretty sure there are mice here, and he doesn’t want to risk crumbs. “C’mon,” he says instead. “When was the last time you had a party? It’ll be fun.”</p><p>He means it as a rhetorical question. Talking with Bucky about the past is tricky—well, it’s more like Steve and HYDRA are both strictly off-limits as conversational topics, and since those are basically the two constants in his past, it’s best to just avoid the topic entirely, unless Bucky brings it up.</p><p>“The last time I celebrated my birthday,” says Bucky, “was in 1944. We were in France. Intel-recon for Normandy. We were camping in the woods and it rained so hard we couldn’t get a fire going to cook our rations. No one could sing ‘Happy Birthday’ or ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ ‘cause the Nazis might hear us. None of us had had sugar for months. Shit, the only reason we knew what day it was was because Steve was like a walking fuckin’ calendar.”</p><p>He picks up his previously-discarded shake, takes a long drag while Sam is trying to think of something to say, and then puts it down. “Four months earlier I thought I’d die on the floor of a HYDRA factory, but I didn’t. It was the best birthday I’d ever had. So I figure, why bother celebrating if I know nothing is gonna top that?”</p><p>Sam blinks. There’s a lot to unpack in Bucky’s words. But first and foremost—</p><p>“You’re telling me this is the 80-year anniversary of the last time you celebrated your birthday?”</p><p>Bucky just shrugs, though to be fair, he is currently masticating half a Big Mac.</p><p>Sam thinks back. Bucky exited his Wakandan cryofreeze in June, if he remembers correctly, and then the Blip happened before his next birthday, so that makes sense. But even so—</p><p>“C’mon, you really didn’t celebrate <i>any</i> birthdays after Insight? Not even once you’d settled down in Bucharest?”</p><p>“They don’t celebrate birthdays in Romania.”</p><p>“I’m, like, 90% sure that isn’t true.”</p><p>“The only thing you know about Romania is what it’s like to get arrested there.” Bucky sips at his shake once again, making yet another disgusted face.</p><p>Sam just stares at him, not really able to analyze why he feels so distressed at the fact that Bucky has gone eight fucking decades without celebrating his birthday once. “You realize that’s sad, right? I mean, that is, like. Objectively heartbreaking.”</p><p>“Pal, that doesn’t even crack the top hundred worst things that’s happened to me,” Bucky says dryly.</p><p>Okay. Fine. He probably should’ve seen an answer like that coming.</p><p>“Still. Humor me. If you did celebrate, what would you do?”</p><p>“Sam.”</p><p>Bucky doesn’t sound annoyed, exactly. Just… serious. Bordering on stern. And exhausted.</p><p>“I shouldn’t be alive,” Bucky says bluntly. “The only reason I’m still standing is because of what HYDRA made me into. I’m not their weapon anymore, but if it wasn’t for them, I would’ve died on impact when I fell from the train. I’m here and I plan to make the best of whatever time I’ve got left, but there’s not much to celebrate. Especially now that—”</p><p>He cuts himself off and shakes his head. “I appreciate the thought. I really do. But I haven’t celebrated in 80 years, and I’m not gonna start now.”</p><p>Sam knows what he was going to say. <i>Especially now that Steve is gone.</i> Steve is always the elephant in the room, the legacy they’re both trying to live up to in different ways. The best friend they’re both mourning, even though he’s perfectly alive in another timeline. He’s even able to visit, though not often; he showed up to say hi last December. But he isn’t here right now.</p><p>There’s probably no one left in this universe that ever celebrated Bucky Barnes’s birthday. How’s that for heartbreaking?</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Sam says. </p><p>“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”</p><p>Sam is worrying, though. Even as they finish eating, there’s a weight heavy inside of him that has nothing to do with the egregious amount of fast food he’s consumed. </p><p>It’s just—sad. That’s all. Sad in the same way that it was to realize how Captain America, national hero, beloved by a nation, was actually incredibly lonely almost all the time.</p><p>Back then, Sam was able to do something to help. But he’s not even sure what helping would look like in this situation.</p><p>They eat in silence, working their way through Bucky’s haul until it’s down to a pile of empty containers and greasy wrappers. Sam starts to stand, about to offer to clean up, when Bucky reaches into the bag from which he’s been eating all the spilled fries, and pulls out a final delicacy.</p><p>“They only had the one left,” he says, setting the apple pie down on the table between them. He then procures a hopefully-clean knife from… somewhere, and cuts it in half, putting one side on a napkin and nudging it towards Sam.</p><p>“Oh—thanks, man.”</p><p>The pie is gone in seconds, and this time they both stand up in tandem. But before Sam can say he’ll take care of all the trash, Bucky, not looking at him, speaks.</p><p>“When I was young, Steve’s ma, Sarah—she used to make this cake. Irish apple cake, with a custard sauce. She only ever made it for my birthday and for Steve’s. The apples weren’t even in season then, but we’d beg her for it. She brought the recipe over with her, one of those old family ones, and she wrote it down before she died and gave it to Steve—said it was the only inheritance she had to give him, you know; she was real sick by that point, and they’d had to sell off her silver and her linens ages ago.”</p><p>Bucky pauses, staring off through space and time.</p><p>Sam leans against his chair. “He ever make it?”</p><p>He turns back to Sam and smiles a little. “Twice a year. Only thing he could bake without burning.”</p><p>Not sure how to respond to that, Sam just nods. Bucky nods back, like they’ve reached some sort of an understanding, and then starts clearing the table. Sam jumps in to help him, and that’s that. Moment passed. If that qualified as a moment (hard to say).</p><p>But Sam’s mind is restless—not with thoughts so much as an indistinct sort of loneliness. He tosses and turns all night, pretending to be asleep only when he hears Bucky awaken suddenly and slip into the restroom. And even though he brushed his teeth before he went to bed, his mouth still takes like cinnamon and apples.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They make it back to DC by the following evening, and things are—normal. Ish.</p><p>Normal on the surface. There’s the usual post-mission debriefing. Grocery shopping. Morning runs with Bucky.</p><p>It’s fine, it is. Except it also isn’t.</p><p>The whole situation just <i>bothers</i> Sam, this rankling feeling in the back of his mind that won’t go away.</p><p>On the one hand, if Bucky doesn’t want to celebrate his birthday, Sam knows he’s gotta respect that. He’s the one who lets Sharon know that Bucky is strictly anti-party, when she texts him to ask if they should plan a surprise, maybe rent out a roller rink or something. </p><p>And it’s also like, they’re all adults. Adults often don’t make a big deal of their birthdays; Sam himself has only ever had small gatherings with his family or friends since he got out of high school. There’s no reason that this should be depressing in the same way that hearing about a kid’s birthday party where no one showed up is.</p><p>But it also just <i>feels</i> like Bucky is sadder than he was before. Melancholy. He hides it well, but there’s something in his eyes when they go running together that first time after they get back. He’s more subdued—still an asshole, sure, but less of an asshole than usual.</p><p>The only other time Sam can remember seeing him like this was in December, once Steve’s holiday visit had concluded and he had hopped back over to his own timeline. And while Sam had recognized then that Bucky seemed down, he was himself dealing with the emotional hangover that came from seeing his former best friend who’d left him to live a separate life, and who could now just pop in at will, like an absentee father who only showed up for birthdays and Christmas.</p><p>Except Steve didn’t show up for birthdays, did he? Steve didn’t have an unlimited amount of Pym particles, and there were side effects to using them too often, and there were “certain factions” who didn’t approve of timeline-jumping that Steve didn’t want to cross. So Steve could only come over on special occasions.</p><p>Sam knows this, and Bucky does too, because they were both there for Steve’s explanation about why he couldn’t visit more often. </p><p>But he never defined “special occasions.” So. Maybe Bucky was hoping he’d show up. Bring some apple cake with custard sauce with him.</p><p>The more Sam thinks about it (and he thinks about it a lot), the more right it feels. </p><p>He and Bucky don’t talk about missing Steve. They’ve talked about Captain America, sure—once Walker’s ass was locked up and Bucky had apologized for being too focused on his own baggage to consider Sam’s point of view, they actually had some incredibly sincere heart-to-hearts about his legacy, what it meant to bear the shield. </p><p>But it turns out that fraught conversations about who America was really built for are a lot easier than discussing how it feels to be abandoned by a man you once followed into war.</p><p>That means there’s no way for Sam to actually confirm his theories. If he straight-up asked Bucky, hey, are you bummed out about Steve not celebrating your birthday? Then Bucky would probably either deck him, get him an emergency meeting with Dr. Raynor, or both.</p><p>He also recognizes, as he mulls the whole thing over one afternoon four days after Bucky’s birthday, that he might <i>possibly</i> be projecting. Bucky could just not want to celebrate his birthday; he might genuinely not care.</p><p>Maybe when Sam glances at Bucky, he’s just reminded of his own bone-deep ache over the abrupt ending of one of the most intense friendships he’s ever known. Maybe he’s just made Bucky into a mirror for the pain he feels whenever he turns to laugh at some dumb shit with Steve, only to remember that Steve isn’t there. Maybe it’s just that this whole situation is reminding Sam that he himself has a lifetime of birthdays to look forward to, however many that’ll be, without Steve.</p><p>He knows that grief over a best friend’s death becomes more bearable with time. He doesn’t know if the same holds true for the grief, and the anger, of being willfully left behind.</p><p>…but anyway, that’s <i>probably</i> not what’s going on here. He’s, like, 85% sure that he’s not just using Bucky as a mirror for all his problems that lack actionable solutions.</p><p>No, as another day goes by and Bucky only makes one comment about how he’s seen turtles running faster than Sam, Sam’s conviction that this isn’t all in his head solidifies. </p><p>And the more he thinks about it, the more upset he gets.</p><p>People should be able to have special things. People should be able to have something to look forward to. People should be able to feel like they’re worth celebrating, that they have others around who <i>want</i> to celebrate them.</p><p>And it’s not just some generic <i>people</i> at stake here, is it? It’s <i>Bucky.</i> </p><p>Hasn’t the dude been through enough? He doesn’t talk about it much, but Sam knows he’s spent a lot of time and energy working to make amends for the shit he did as the Soldier. And that’s when he’s not fighting any number of the terrorist cells that emerged during the Blip.</p><p>He’s had a tough year. He deserves something nice. He deserves his fucking apple cake, if that’s what he wants.</p><p>It’s that thought which combines with Sam’s innate drive to solve any problem that comes his way, which triggers the tiny impulsive streak that runs inside him, and that’s how he finds himself on the overnight Amtrak to New York.</p><p> </p><p>“I am not doing that,” Dr. Strange says flatly.</p><p>“Ten minutes,” Sam presses. “In and out. C’mon.”</p><p>The sorcerer looks supremely displeased. “I am <i>not</i> going to open a portal between dimensions because you want to go and get a birthday cake recipe. Captain Rogers already acted impudently when he created that timeline instead of just returning the infinity stones. That’s not behavior I want to reward.”</p><p>“You aren’t going to be rewarding Steve. If anything, this’ll probably be a <i>super</i> uncomfortable conversation for him.”</p><p>“Schadenfreude isn’t motivation enough to get me to disrupt the space-time continuum, I’m afraid.”</p><p>“Look.” Sam pulls a notepad and pen from his pocket and waves them in the air. “I even brought my own shit to write it down on so I won’t contaminate this timeline with an invasive recipe card. And I promise I won’t step on any butterflies while I’m there.”</p><p>“I’m sure Google has plenty of Irish apple cake recipes. There’s a Starbucks down the road with great wifi.”</p><p>The wizard-without-a-hat isn’t wrong. There <i>are</i> a lot of recipes out there. But none of them are Steve’s. And it’s gotta be Steve’s. Otherwise Sam will just be baking Bucky a random cake, and that would just be weird.</p><p>Well, if Strange isn’t willing to help out of the goodness of his heart, Sam isn’t above playing dirty.</p><p>“Okay. Fine.” He shrugs and casually turns to the door. “Sorry to bother you. I’m sure Wanda will be able to help.”</p><p>“Wanda is <i>strictly</i> forbidden from using dimensional magic,” Strange says. “Her powers are unstable. At best, she might create another timeline; at worst, she could cause a catastrophe across the multiverse.”</p><p>“Okay. Sure.” Sam shrugs again. “She likes Bucky, though. They’re buds. They always go for Sokovian food when they’re both in the city.”</p><p>“She’s just as likely to send you into a dimension where people can fly without fancy gadgets as she is to send you where you want to go!”</p><p>“That’s okay. I bet flying Steve knows the apple cake recipe.”</p><p>“She won’t do it.”  His voice contains a note of something that, in a less dignified man, might be considered panic.</p><p>“We’ll see.” Sam smiles big. “Thanks again for your time.”</p><p>“Ten minutes,” Strange says flatly. “You get ten minutes before I close the portal and leave you there, consequences be damned.”</p><p>Sam turns back around, not bothering to change his expression. “Tell me when to start my timer.”</p><p> </p><p>The portal spits him out in what is apparently Steve Rogers’ living room. Sam gleans this from the blandly homey décor, the TV mounted on the wall, and the fact that silver fox Steve Rogers himself is sitting on the ugly floral-patterned couch, apparently doing a crossword puzzle.</p><p>Or he was sitting. As soon as Sam stumbles into his timeline, he leaps to his feet, throwing the newspaper aside. “Sam! What is it? Is it the Skrull? Mephisto? Kang the Conqueror?”</p><p>Sam blinks. “Kang the what-now?”</p><p>Steve stares at him, then shakes his head. “Never mind. I guess that’s something your timeline doesn’t have to worry about. Yet. But really, what’s going on?”</p><p>Sam decides not to ask. “I’ve only got ten minutes. Here.” </p><p>He pulls out the notepad and pen and thrusts them at Steve. “I need your mom’s apple cake recipe.”</p><p>Steve looks at the items in his hands, then at the crackling portal, then back at Sam. “My mom’s apple cake recipe?”</p><p>“And the custard sauce, too. Please.”</p><p>“Are you telling me,” Steve asks slowly, “that there’s not a world-ending, universe-breaking crisis going on?”</p><p>“Bucky’s sad.”</p><p>“...you’re saying that you burst into my living room and almost gave me a heart attack because <i>Bucky</i> is <i>sad</i>?”</p><p>He promised Dr. Strange he wouldn’t step on any butterflies, but Sam briefly wonders if committing trans-dimensional homicide is equally detrimental to the stability of the timelines. </p><p>“Used to be you would’ve considered that an emergency,” he says instead. “But I guess that was a long time ago. For one of us, anyway.”</p><p>It isn’t intentional, but his voice slips into the flat, calm affect it only gets when he’s really, really pissed.</p><p>Steve opens his mouth, shuts it, takes a deep breathe, and then says, “Start at the beginning?”</p><p>“’s not a long story. His birthday was a couple of days ago. He told me he didn’t celebrate. Then he went on a tangent about how your mom used to make this apple cake. And he’s been moping around ever since. Because, y’know, people get sad when life happens and they don’t have their best friends around.” </p><p>(Okay, to be fair, Bucky hasn’t been moping <i>that</i> much—not in the way that he did back when he and Sam first started working together, when guilt over being the Soldier permeated his every waking hour, and, Sam suspects, most of his sleeping ones too. But Steve doesn’t need any reason to think that Sam has hopped universes just because he personally has a lot of lingering issues over Steve leaving, or anything dumb like that. This is definitely only about Bucky.)</p><p>Steve frowns. “Didn’t he get my flowers?”</p><p>And okay, of all the things to come out of Old Man Rogers’ mouth, Sam wasn’t expecting that. “Your what now?”</p><p>“Flowers. And chocolates. I put down a deposit at that little flower store, you know, the one near your old place? So that you and Bucky would get a delivery on your birthday. You know I can’t just come over whenever I want, but I wanted you to know I was thinking of you.”</p><p>Sam stares at him. “The flower shop we used to run by? The one that no one was ever in, that we always used to joke was a mob front?”</p><p>“I went in,” Steve says defensively. “They had some nice arrangements.”</p><p>“The owners burned it down for the insurance money in January.”</p><p>Steve sucks in a breath and sits down on his ugly couch. For the first time, he looks not just elderly, but old. </p><p>“Okay,” he says slowly. “I’m beginning to see how I might, conceivably, be the asshole in this situation.”</p><p> </p><p>Six minutes later, Sam’s notepad has been filled with a list of ingredients and an extremely thorough set of instructions. </p><p>“You’ll be fine,” Steve tells him, capping the pen and handing it back over. “I was terrified the first time I made it after my Ma died; I was an awful baker, and I knew I’d feel terrible if I messed up. But it came out great. If I could do it, I know you can.”</p><p>“I hope so,” Sam says, shifting from foot to foot. Ten minutes didn’t seem like a long time when Strange opened the portal, but he’s about ready to step back inside. Maybe crossing universes always feels like this. Maybe it’s just inherently unsettling to be standing amid the physical accumulation of all the years that Steve has lived without him. “Thanks, man.”</p><p>“Of course.” </p><p>Before Sam can go, Steve reaches out and clasps his hand. His grasp is as strong as ever, but his hand feels bony, skin dry and thin. “Sam. I’m real proud of you. And I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to know that you and Bucky have each other.”</p><p>He pulls Sam into a hug then, sharp and tight. When he steps back, he’s got that small, cryptic sort of smile on his face, the same one he wore when Sam had asked him about Peggy that day on the lake. “After all the years we spent on his trail, I’m glad you finally found him.”</p><p>Before Sam can even begin to wonder at what that means, Steve claps his shoulder. “I’ll try to get my hands on more particles, all right? Maybe over the summer I can visit again. Take care, and—tell Bucky I said happy birthday.”</p><p>The timer on Sam’s phone goes off just then. He’s not sure how serious Dr. Strange was about the ten-minute limit, but he’s not willing to find out. You don’t mess with wizards.</p><p>“I will. Take care yourself.”</p><p>He turns away from Steve before he can say anything else and steps into the portal. A second later, he’s back in New York with an irate-looking Dr. Strange. </p><p>Strange makes a sharp gesture, and the portal disappears. “Are you satisfied?”</p><p>Sam waves the open notebook, covered in Steve’s neat scrawl. “Very. Hey, you think you could open a portal back to DC for me? Amtrak’s mad expensive.”</p><p>“Please get out of the Sanctorum,” says Strange.</p><p> </p><p>To Sam’s eternal chagrin, he is apparently a slightly worse baker than Depression-Era Steve Rogers. It takes him three days to get the goddamn custard sauce all silky-smooth and vanilla-smelling, and not looking like curdled eggs.</p><p>When he does, though, and his apartment is filled with the warm, homey scent of apples and cinnamon, he pulls out his phone and texts Bucky: <i>wyd?</i></p><p>Almost a year of working together, and he’s still not entirely sure what Bucky does in his free time, other than work on his amends. He’s pretty sure the answer is “not much,” though. It better be. He’s not sure he can stick the custard sauce again.</p><p>He’s validated when his phone starts ringing approximately two seconds after the text.</p><p>“I don’t know what that means,” Bucky says. “Warning! You’re in Danger? Wild, Young, and Deadly? Wave Your Dick?”</p><p>“It’s the last one. And, what are you doing,” Sam says.</p><p>“Nothing. Just tell me what it means, for real.”</p><p>Sam rolls his eyes. “Come to my place. I’ve got something for you.”</p><p>There’s a pause. “What?” Bucky asks, sounding deeply distrustful. Rude.</p><p>“It’s a surprise. And I’m not telling you what it is, so you’re gonna have to come by to find out.”</p><p>Bucky pauses. Then, “How armed should I be?”</p><p>Sam pokes the custard sauce with his wooden spoon. It does not appear to pose a combative threat. Yet. “Minimally.”</p><p>When Sam opens his door 20 minutes later, Bucky’s face is molded into a scowl of suspicion that Sam suspects he’s worn since he got the text. But the expression quickly melts away into confusion, his brow furrowing as he breathes in the scent of Sam’s apartment.</p><p>“This isn’t a surprise party,” Sam says quickly as Bucky’s eyes start to narrow again. He steps aside to let Bucky in, so he can see for himself that there’s no gaggle of guests hiding somewhere, waiting to pop up. “I baked you a cake. That has nothing to do with your birthday, since you don’t celebrate it.”</p><p>By this point, Bucky has followed his nose like a bloodhound straight to Sam’s kitchen. He murder-struts his way in, and then—stops. Halfway to the counter, where the cake sits on a cooling rack.</p><p>Bucky stares at it for a long second, then looks back at Sam. “What is this?”</p><p>Sam can’t read the emotions in his voice, which isn’t unusual at all, but does suddenly make him wonder if maybe hopping over to an alternate universe to get a cake recipe off their vanished mutual best friend was somehow ill-advised.</p><p>“It’s a cake,” he says again. “For you?”</p><p>Bucky’s eyes are on the cake again, like it might vanish if out of sight. “That’s Steve’s recipe.”</p><p>It isn’t a question. A spark of pride flares in Sam’s chest: even if it took a few days, he did a good enough job that Bucky recognized it without hesitation, 80 years since he last saw the real thing. “Yeah. I, uh, got it off of him.”</p><p>Bucky takes a careful step forward, and then another. He stretches out his left arm and gently pokes the top of the cake, then glances into the pot of custard sauce on the stove. </p><p>“You even made the sauce,” he says wonderingly.</p><p>Then he frowns. “Wait. When did he give you the recipe?”</p><p>Sam leans against the table. “I, uh, kind of blackmailed Strange into opening a portal for me so I could ask him for it.”</p><p>Bucky stares at him. Sam crosses his arms over his chest and glares.</p><p>“Look, you just—you seemed down, man. And I thought it was shitty that Steve hadn’t stopped by to say happy birthday, okay? So I told Strange if he wasn’t going to let me go over I’d just ask Wanda to open up a portal, and he gave me ten minutes with Steve. And I got the recipe. And he says happy birthday. And he also put down a deposit to send you flowers, but the shop burned down.”</p><p>Bucky’s frown deepens. “You don’t mean he went to that store in Dupont. The one that was obviously a mob front?”</p><p>“<i>Right</i>? That’s exactly what I said.”</p><p>Bucky nods, like that’s somehow the most unbelievable part of the admittedly batshit story Sam just told. He looks at the cake again, opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again and says, “I would’ve given you the recipe if you’d asked.”</p><p>At least, that’s what it sounds like he said. But there’s no way those words <i>actually</i> came out of his mouth. Absolutely no fucking chance.</p><p>“I’m sorry, <i>what</i>?”</p><p>“The recipe,” Bucky says calmly, like he’s not just telling Sam that he went slightly overboard when he decided to cross literal universes for apple cake. “Sarah gave it to me before she died. I told you, Steve couldn’t bake for shit. She knew he’d never tell me what was in it, but she wanted to make sure we’d still be able to have it even after she was gone. It was pure dumb luck that Steve was actually pretty good at making it.”</p><p>Standing suddenly ceases to be an option, and Sam sits down hard in his chair. Bucky leans against the counter, looking concerned. “Are you okay?”</p><p>“I just—I thought you were upset. About the cake. Or your birthday in general? Man, I don’t know. You’ve seemed down.”</p><p>Did he, though? Sam is starting to doubt himself a bit. Was it possible he’d mistaken Bucky’s usual brooding for cake-induced angst? <i>Had</i> he actually been projecting his own stupid feelings about missing Steve onto Bucky?</p><p>Bucky sighs, his eyes skittering away from Sam for a second. He takes a moment before he answers. </p><p>“I mean—yeah. Like I said, I don’t celebrate my birthday because it’s a reminder that I shouldn’t be here. But I am. And I guess this year, it really got me thinking about how maybe I should be figuring out what I really want from whatever extra time I’ve got.”</p><p>“Oh. That sounds… like a lot.”</p><p>Bucky looks at him, something unreadable in his eyes, and nods.</p><p>“Have you… figured anything out? About what you want?”</p><p>Bucky’s expression turns more thoughtful, and again he considers his response carefully. Finally, he says, “I want to say thank you. Even if it <i>was</i> overkill, crossing into another dimension to get a cake recipe is one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me. And I want to try the cake.”</p><p>“It was nothing,” Sam says, even though they both know he’s being a filthy liar. “And yeah, go ahead. Cut me a piece too?”</p><p>Bucky uses his knife skills to procure two impressively large slices. “You want the custard sauce too?”</p><p>“Oh, hell yeah. I put my blood, sweat, and tears into making that. But not, like, literally.”</p><p>“Paul Hollywood would be proud,” Bucky deadpans. (Several months into their coworkership, upon getting a glimpse at the extent of the nightmares and flashbacks Bucky struggled with on a regular basis, Sam had given him a list of television shows he liked to watch on shitty days. Bucky had taken it and never mentioned it again. The confirmation that he’s actually seen some of Sam’s recommendations makes Sam feel a soft and fuzzy kind of feeling that he isn’t interested in unpacking at the moment).</p><p>Bucky meets Sam’s eyes as he reaches a ladle down into the custard sauce. “Tell me when to stop,” he says. </p><p>He tips his wrist, and custard sauce spills out of the spoon, white and silky. It mesmerizes Sam for a moment, the way it slips down and pools around the crumbly golden apple cake.</p><p>“That’s good,” he says quickly, and Bucky levels out the ladle, drizzling what remains in it over his own piece with much less finesse.</p><p>Bucky drops into the seat across from Sam, sliding his plate and a fork across the table. They dig into the cake at the same time, and let out simultaneous, identical, moderately pornographic moans.</p><p>“This is damn good,” Sam says as soon as he’s swallowed. It is: the cake is moist and crumbly at once, the apple chunks throughout still retaining their tart crispness. It tastes exactly as it smelled, cinnamon and sugar filling all his senses. And all the trouble the custard sauce caused was worth it; it’s rich and smooth, creamy vanilla with just a slight tang to it.</p><p>“It’s perfect. This tastes exactly like Sarah used to make it.” Bucky drags the edge of his fork along the plate, scooping up more custard sauce for his next bite. “Sam—thank you. I know you miss Steve too, and it can’t have been easy going to see him. And—look, I know I’m not good at things like this. But if you ever want to, you know, try talking about Steve. I’m here.”</p><p>Sam swallows down the lump in his throat along with his next bite of apple cake. “Thanks. I might take you up on that one of these days.”</p><p>Bucky nods and looks away. He fidgets with his fork. </p><p>But before Sam can ask him what’s going on, he’s glanced back up and says, “So. Uh. So me and Steve, when we had the money on each other’s birthdays, we used to go out for ice cream sodas. And. I don’t celebrate my birthday anymore. But I though. Maybe. You might like to go get ice cream sometime?”</p><p>Sam almost drops the piece of cake that’s halfway to his mouth on the floor. But that would be a sin, so he doesn’t. Instead, he carefully lowers it back to the plate, his eyes on Bucky. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and repeats the process a few more times, like one of those singing fish that’s had its sound cut off.</p><p>Bucky reddens. He’s got that look that says he’s two seconds away from fleeing. “Never mind. Forget I asked.” </p><p>“Wait! Bucky—yeah. Yes. Man, I just popped into a parallel universe ‘cause I thought you wanted cake.” He doesn’t actually realize the truth of the words until he’s saying them. Maybe he’s not actually as in-touch with his feelings as he likes to think he is. “Of course I wanna go out for ice cream with you.”</p><p>Bucky relaxes back into his chair. “Okay. Cool.”</p><p>“Cool,” Sam repeats, and by the time Bucky leaves, carrying half the cake and custard sauce tucked away in Tupperware containers, they’ve made plans to get ice cream and go for a walk around the waterfront the next day. And when Sam goes to bed that night, there’s a smile on his face and the scent of apples and cinnamon still lingering in the air.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><br/>thank you for reading! comments are greatly appreciated. you can also find me <a href="https://lies-unfurl.tumblr.com/">on Tumblr @ lies-unfurl.</a></p>
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